The world belonged to Damien Stone, or so he liked to believe it would. From the heights of his glass-walled office in the Stone Industries Tower, the city stretched below like a vast chessboard, its millions of inhabitants reduced to mere pawns in his view. It was a winter morning in late December—gray, slate-colored clouds hovered low over the skyline, and snowflakes fell intermittently, dusting the streets with deceptive innocence.

  To Damien, the snowfall was just another inconvenience.

  He stood with his back to the room, his silhouette cutting a severe figure against the skyline. Six-foot-three, lean but broad-shouldered, he could have been carved from marble. Even his posture was precise—spine straight, shoulders squared, hands clasped loosely behind him. His charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, paired with a crisp white shirt and a deep blue tie that hinted at navy only when the light hit it just right. Damien Stone did not believe in excess. He believed in control, in sharp edges, in results.

  Behind him, the morning staff meeting had begun in quiet dread.

  The Stone Industries executive team sat around the gleaming black conference table, though no one dared meet his gaze. Damien had not yet spoken, but his silence carried more weight than a thousand lectures. On the far wall, a digital clock ticked away the seconds—each one more deafening than the last—until, finally, Damien turned around.

  “Four percent,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a blade sliding out of its sheath.

  His piercing blue eyes swept across the room, resting on each executive just long enough to remind them of their vulnerability. No one ever forgot that Damien Stone seemed to know everything.

  “We are a few days out from quarter’s end,” he continued, “and projections still fall short by nearly four percent. Four percent.”

  As he repeated the number, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. The snow outside the glass looked almost balmy compared to the chill emanating from Damien.

  “Our clients don’t care about excuses. And more importantly, I don’t care about excuses. Results are the only thing that matter. What’s the plan?”

  Gregory Madsen, Chief Financial Officer, cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Madsen was a man in his mid-fifties who had survived a decade under Damien’s thumb—no small feat—but today, even he seemed to struggle for words.

  “We’ve identified the gap primarily in the acquisitions pipeline,” Madsen offered hesitantly. “We’ve had a delay in closing the Montgomery account, but—”

  “A delay?” Damien cut him off sharply. “Montgomery should have signed ten days ago.”

  “Well, sir,” Madsen stammered, “Montgomery has expressed concerns about—about the timing.”

  “Concerns about the timing?” Damien repeated, the mockery in his voice unmistakable. “Are we talking about the timing of the contract? Or the timing of Christmas?”

  No one answered. The word hung in the air like a curse. Christmas.

  Damien’s gaze narrowed, and his voice grew colder still. “Because I don’t particularly care what day it is, what month it is, or what sacred tradition Montgomery’s executives might have in their pathetic, sentimental little lives. The only thing that matters is the bottom line. Do I make myself clear?”

  A chorus of murmured Yes, sirs followed.

  Damien straightened his tie. “Madsen, if you can’t close Montgomery, I’ll find someone who can. If you’re not up to it, perhaps I should call in Wallace from Legal?”

  “No, sir. I’ll handle it.”

  “You’d better.”

  Damien turned his back to them once again, dismissing the entire room with a shift of his shoulders and a wave of his hand. Slowly, they filed out, moving like men and women who had narrowly escaped a guillotine. Only his assistant, Victoria Hale, lingered behind.

  “Sir,” she began quietly, “you have a call with Senator Parker at eleven, and the Hong Kong office needs you to sign off on the restructuring proposal before end of day.”

  “Fine.”

  “And, Mr. Stone?”

  He looked over his shoulder.

  “Your schedule is clear for the evening. I thought you might want to know.”

  “Is there a reason I need to know?”

  Victoria hesitated for half a second—enough to make him frown.

  “Well, sir, I understand it’s the annual corporate holiday gala this evening. The board asked if you planned to attend.”

  Damien turned fully now, his expression unreadable. Victoria had been his assistant for five years, and she knew better than anyone how little he cared for the holidays. Still, she delivered the message like clockwork, as she had every year.

  “Send my regrets,” he said flatly.

  “Yes, Mr. Stone.”

  As she left, Damien returned to his window. The snowfall had thickened, swirling between the skyscrapers, blanketing the streets below. People down there would be laughing and drinking hot chocolate. Somewhere, children were singing carols and couples were shopping for gifts—foolish traditions that humans clung to as though they meant something. Damien Stone had no use for any of it.

  He had learned long ago that compassion was a weakness—one that people exploited, and one that he would never again afford himself.

  Damien’s disdain for sentiment was not new.

  As a child, he had grown up in a household where Christmas cheer was a luxury no one could afford. His father had been a bitter, broken man, drowning his failures in a bottle, and his mother had spent her last years clinging to hope where there was none.

  “Compassion is for the weak, Damien,” his father had told him once. “You show them a crack, they’ll take everything from you.”

  He had been twelve years old when he internalized that truth. That year, his mother’s last Christmas, his mother had used the last of her money to buy him a toy car—small and red, with white racing stripes. It wasn’t much, but her eyes had been bright as she handed it to him on Christmas morning.

  His father smashed it against the wall before he could even play with it.

  “You think that’ll make him strong? You think that will help him in life?” his father roared at her. “You’re making him soft!”

  The memory had been carved into him like a scar. Love was a vulnerability. So were hope, charity, and all those fragile notions that people clung to in the name of “goodness.” Damien had no room for them.

  By the time he turned eighteen, he had walked out of that house for good. By twenty-two, he’d made his first million. At thirty, he founded Stone Industries, building an empire through sheer will and ruthless precision.

  Now, at thirty-nine, Damien Stone was a man feared in boardrooms across the globe.

  By evening, the city had transformed. The snowfall that Damien had dismissed as an inconvenience now blanketed the streets, softening their edges with pristine white. Storefronts glowed with strings of lights, and wreaths adorned the lampposts along Fifth Avenue. New York City was a canvas of holiday cheer, and Damien found it insufferable.

  The Stone Industries Tower remained untouched by any such decor. Damien forbade it. There would be no trees, no wreaths, no twinkling lights cluttering his corridors. He did not want employees wasting time on frivolities. Productivity was what mattered.

  He descended the elevator alone after hours, his footsteps echoing across the marble lobby. It was nearly deserted, save for a lone janitor cleaning the far corner. As Damien walked past, he barely registered the man’s presence. The janitor—small, hunched, and dressed in ill-fitting coveralls—glanced up hesitantly.

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  “Good evening, Mr. Stone.”

  Damien didn’t respond. He was already focused on the gleaming black sedan waiting outside.

  In the backseat of the car, Damien allowed himself a moment of silence as his driver pulled into the traffic. He looked out the window, watching the holiday lights blur past. People moved with purpose through the streets—holding shopping bags, clutching gloved hands, smiling through scarves and snowflakes.

  His lip curled slightly.

  “What a waste,” he muttered.

  Damien’s penthouse on the Upper East Side was the pinnacle of minimalist luxury. Sleek lines, black marble floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an unbroken view of the city skyline. The space was immaculate, as though no one truly lived there—and in many ways, no one did. Damien Stone occupied it, but he did not live in it.

  He loosened his tie and poured himself a glass of Scotch from the bar cart near the window. The drink burned pleasantly as he swallowed, and for a fleeting moment, Damien allowed himself to savor it. Outside, the city glittered, and below him, people celebrated a holiday that meant nothing.

  The sound of his phone vibrating shattered the quiet.

  He set down his glass and crossed the room.

  “Stone.”

  “Mr. Stone,” came the familiar voice of Victoria. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

  “Then don’t.”

  She hesitated. “It’s the Montgomery deal, sir. I just received word from Madsen—Montgomery’s CEO has requested an extension until after the holidays.”

  Damien’s jaw tightened. “An extension.”

  “Yes, sir. He said his team is away for the week and—”

  “I don’t care where his team is,” Damien snapped. “If Montgomery wants to play hardball, they’ll learn what hardball feels like.”

  “But sir, it is Christmas Eve tomorrow. Perhaps—”

  “Don’t,” he cut her off sharply, “say that word to me again.”

  “Of course, Mr. Stone,” Victoria replied softly. “I’ll call Legal and get Madsen on it.”

  He hung up without another word, the muscles in his jaw taut.

  Damien stared out at the city once more, glass of Scotch back in hand, and watched the lights flicker in the distance. The world was soft—bent on celebrating meaningless traditions, on filling itself with warmth while ignoring the truth that the strong survived and the weak fell.

  He had no time for compassion.

  He would never afford himself that weakness.

  The morning of Christmas Eve dawned cold and bitter, like the man who ruled from the pinnacle of Stone Industries Tower. Snow had blanketed the streets overnight, and the city sparkled as though trying to charm those who walked its paths. But charm had no place in Damien Stone’s world.

  From the 60th floor of Stone Industries Tower, the world below looked small—insignificant, like an anthill someone could stomp out with the heel of a shoe.

  Damien Stone stood at his window, coffee in hand, dressed in yet another perfectly tailored suit. He had been in the office before sunrise, as always. While others indulged in holiday cheer, Damien preferred to start the day with quiet calculations and clear intentions.

  There was a hostile takeover to complete.

  He turned sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps. Victoria Hale appeared in the doorway, holding a tablet in one hand and clutching her phone in the other. Despite the holiday, her sleek navy blazer and pristine pencil skirt were as professional as always.

  “Good morning, Mr. Stone,” she said, her tone brisk. “Legal has confirmed the loophole in Montgomery’s contract. As of 8:07 this morning, we can move forward with the acquisition.”

  Damien raised an eyebrow as he sipped his coffee.

  Victoria hesitated only briefly.

  “In Section 14C of their liquidity clause,” she replied, “the company failed to maintain the stipulated solvency threshold while delaying their deal closure. Technically, they breached the terms. It opens a pathway for—”

  “A hostile takeover,” Damien finished. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s good to know Montgomery’s incompetence runs this deep.”

  Victoria nodded, already accustomed to the razor-thin line her boss tread between satisfaction and disdain.

  “Get Madsen in here,” Damien said as he turned back to the city. Tell him to have the first estimates on my desk before the meeting.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stone.”

  By mid-morning, the conference room was filled again. Executives sat stiffly, the air buzzing with unspoken tension. The mood was colder than the weather outside. Damien stood at the head of the table, hands resting flat against its polished surface, the master of the room.

  Gregory Madsen had already delivered the financials. Montgomery Industries’ delay and internal struggles had made them ripe for the taking. Now all that remained was for Damien to make his decision official.

  “This,” Damien said, glancing at the projected numbers on the screen, “is what happens when you fail to meet your promises. Weak leadership. Weak commitments. Weak strategy. Weakness.”

  No one spoke, though Madsen looked deeply uncomfortable as he adjusted his tie.

  Damien turned his gaze on him, eyes like chips of ice. “Something to say, Madsen?”

  The CFO hesitated. “Sir, I just … Montgomery Industries employs nearly three thousand people. With this deal going through, many of them—”

  Damien straightened. The room seemed to freeze along with him.

  “Madsen,” Damien said coolly, “are you suggesting we hold off on this acquisition because of misplaced sentimentality? Perhaps because today happens to be … Christmas Eve?”

  A ripple of discomfort passed through the room.

  “No, sir,” Madsen replied quickly, his face flushed. “That’s not what I—”

  “Good.” Damien’s voice sliced through the air. “Because this is business. Sentimentality kills businesses. Montgomery knew the risks when they signed the contract. They knew the terms. If they didn’t want this to happen, they should have held up their end of the deal. Weakness has consequences.”

  Madsen opened his mouth again but closed it just as quickly, his shoulders slumping as though the fight had been drained from him.

  “That’s a wise decision,” Damien said softly, his tone carrying a razor’s edge. “You can’t stop what’s already in motion.”

  He stepped back, allowing his gaze to sweep over the room like a judge surveying a courtroom.

  “Now, since Montgomery has provided us with the opportunity to acquire their assets at cents on the dollar, I expect every one of you to prioritize this. Effective immediately, all departments will dedicate the next twenty-four hours to executing this takeover.”

  A murmur swept across the table, quickly stifled as Damien’s gaze darkened.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked, his voice dangerously low.

  No one spoke. Not one executive dared to meet his eyes.

  “Good,” Damien said. “You’ll all be working late tonight. I don’t care what plans you’ve made. This will get done.”

  Silence reigned. Wisely, no one complained.

  The news spread quickly through the building. By 10:00 a.m., Stone Industries was a hive of activity. Assistants scrambled to make calls to Montgomery’s key shareholders. The legal team combed through the contract one last time. Analysts adjusted projections, and the acquisition department worked with cold, mechanical efficiency under Damien’s watchful eye.

  “We’re moving too fast,” one junior associate whispered to another near the break room, out of sight of Damien’s office. “It’s Christmas Eve. People are supposed to be home by now.”

  “Would you like to tell Mr. Stone that?” the other replied with a nervous laugh. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

  Wisely, no one complained.

  By mid-afternoon, Damien was back in his office, reviewing the final details of the takeover. Victoria entered, carrying a small tray with his lunch—salad, grilled chicken, and black coffee, the same as every day.

  “Everything’s proceeding as per your instructions,” she reported. “Madsen said the takeover package is on schedule and the work will be finalized tonight. He’s pushing everyone to have it wrapped up before nine tonight.”

  “Good,” Damien replied without looking up.

  Victoria lingered for a moment, her gaze flickering to the snow outside. Despite not having been outside since she arrived at 6 in the morning, she knew that the city below had transformed into a postcard—Christmas lights adorned every street, and couples walked hand in hand through Central Park, their breath visible in the freezing air.

  “Anything else?” Damien asked sharply, snapping her attention back.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you get back to work.”

  Victoria left, and Damien returned his focus to the papers before him. He didn’t hear the door close.

  As the day dragged into evening, Stone Industries became an island in a city otherwise quieting for the holiday. By 6:00 p.m., the sounds of car horns had died down outside. Storefronts locked their doors. Families gathered for dinners, and children set cookies out for a man in a red suit that Damien considered nothing more than a marketing gimmick.

  Inside the tower, though, the work continued relentlessly.

  Damien spent the hours on calls with Montgomery’s most stubborn stakeholders, his voice firm, his tone irrefutable. Some begged for time—“Surely you can wait until after the holidays?”—but Damien never wavered.

  “Time is money,” he said coolly, more than once. “And I’m not in the business of charity.”

  Damien stood in his office, going over the last of the reports Victoria had delivered. Every detail was aligning perfectly. Montgomery Industries would belong to him—locked, filed, and signed—before the sun rose on Christmas morning.

  At precisely 8:52 PM, there was a knock on his door.

  “Enter.”

  Gregory Madsen stepped inside, looking drained but triumphant. His tie had been loosened, and the deep lines on his face seemed more pronounced under the fluorescent lights.

  “It’s done, Mr. Stone,” Madsen said. “The paperwork is complete. Legal will file it first thing tomorrow morning. I called in a favor to have it processed on Christmas. There won’t be any delays.”

  Damien nodded once, saying nothing. He was not a man to offer unnecessary praise. Instead his eyes fixed on the papers in Madsen’s hands.

  “I’ll have everything notarized tonight, before I leave,” Madsen added. Then, after a pause, he said carefully, “You do know this will put a vast number of Montgomery’s workforce out of jobs on … well, tomorrow morning.”

  Damien looked up slowly, his expression as cold and still as ever. “If they didn’t want this to happen, Madsen, they shouldn’t have fallen through on their promises.”

  Madsen opened his mouth as if to say something else, then thought better of it. He shut his mouth, nodded, and placed the documents carefully on Damien’s desk.

  “I’ll let you know when the filings are confirmed,” Madsen said quietly.

  Damien waved him off with a flick of his fingers, already turning his chair to face the window.

  “Goodnight, sir,” Madsen said softly, though he received no reply.

  For a long time, Damien sat in silence. The view before him was magnificent—miles of glass and steel, glowing softly under the snow-covered sky.

  To him, the city was a machine. Efficient, vast, unforgiving. If you stopped moving, it crushed you under its weight. Weak companies, weak people—they all fell eventually. Damien had simply given Montgomery Industries the push it had already earned.

  He sipped at his Scotch, letting the burn fill his throat as the clock ticked toward midnight. Tomorrow would be Christmas. The papers would be filed, the takeover complete, and Montgomery would crumble like an empire of sand. The result was clean, precise, inevitable.

  Damien was proud of that.

  Compassion didn’t win wars. Sentiment didn’t build fortunes.